Hewn before the knowing of Time from some antipodean proto-tree, the Australian Cricket Captain is a beast not of flesh, nor of myth. Born without language or love, he knows but one desire: to execute his skills. And yet, and yet; the latest of this kind feels an alien hunger stirring within his gnarled breast.
The lamentations of the English still fulfil him, yes, but unexercised mental muscles twinge when someone hands him a baby to sign. This baby could be launched into the second tier with but a flick of his combat-attuned arms, of this he has no doubt. He could crush it utterly without even using the second PowerPlay, and yet, and yet; somehow this baby is exuding more than an all-encompassing slime. It oozes not just baby food, but confidence; the confidence born not only of the knowledge that all of this will be wiped up by someone else, but of knowing its place in the world. Society embraces this baby with a familiarity the Australian Cricket Captain has never known, no matter how sticky he has been. Without even developing an outswinger, the baby has penetrated the Captain’s forward defensive, and scattered the prehistoric stumps of his soul.
The Australian Cricket Captain hands the baby back to its mother, and trudges back to the pavilion, a broken man.
All of which is to say, if Ricky Ponting is paying websites to put up this bizarre bit of taxonomy on barely cricket-related pages, it smacks of overcompensating (click image for full size):